PDF. - Essay Press

RECONFILIATING:
CONVERSATIONS
WITH
CONCEPTUAL-AFFILIATED
WRITERS
curated by
CALEB BECKWITH
#41
ESSAY PRESS LISTENING TOUR
As the Essay Press website re-launches, we have
commissioned some of our favorite conveners of
public discussions to curate conversation-based
chapbooks. Overhearing such dialogues among
poets, prose writers, critics and artists, we hope
to re-envision how Essay can emulate and expand
upon recent developments in trans-disciplinary
small-press culture.
Series Editors
Maria Anderson
Andy Fitch
Ellen Fogelman
Aimee Harrison
Courtney Mandryk
Victoria A. Sanz
Travis Sharp
Ryan Spooner
Randall Tyrone
Series Assistants
Cristiana Baik
Ryan Ikeda
Christopher Liek
Cover Design
Courtney Mandryk
Layout
Aimee Harrison
CONTENTS
Introduction v
Interview with J. Gordon Faylor
1
by Caleb Beckwith
Interview with Danny Snelson
Interview with Divya Victor
Afterword by Joseph Mosconi
Author Bios 15
35
63
68
INTRODUCTION
— Caleb Beckwith
If poetry’s many communities have agreed on
anything this year, it’s that so-called conceptual
writing is a genre of stakes. These are professional
stakes, as seen from 2011-2012, with the rapid-fire
publication of Against Expression: An Anthology
of Conceptual Writing and I’ll Drown My Book:
Conceptual Writing by Women. These are political
stakes, as demonstrated by recent discussions of
race and embodiment in political critique—an issue
forced by purported missteps from some of the
genre’s most visible practitioners. And these are
personal stakes. When else have so many felt so
deeply for or against an aesthetic mode of writing?
This fall will see a number of high-profile releases
associated with conceptual writing, most important of
which will be my friend and interlocutor Divya Victor’s
long-awaited feature for Jacket 2, “Conceptual Writing
(plural and global) and Other Cultural Productions.”
In rhyme with Victor’s timely reframing of the genre
v
around its wider range of practitioners, this present
collection lays bare the very limited and communal
ties through which I (like my peers) came to know
conceptual writing. Rather than claiming authority
for the friends and peers included in this volume, my
hope is to show how wild and unformed the diverse
practices and work gathered under their shared
genre-tag remains. If this chapbook has a central
concept, other than friendship, it is that “conceptual
writing” (as the phrase gets used in conversation,
online and in critical essays) fails to capture even a
small portion of the actual work currently produced.
All three of my interlocutors in this volume have
a connection to Philadelphia. Though we have
since dispersed to different coasts and countries,
I offer this connection to foreground my own very
limited frame of reference. What I understand
as conceptual writing is much more informed by
writing in Philadelphia from 2012-2015 than by either
aforementioned anthology. Had I been living in New
York, Los Angeles, Mexico City or elsewhere abroad,
my sense of conceptual writing would undoubtedly
be different.
Here’s to conceptual writing, to knowing a genre by
its manifold practitioners, and to knowing that we
never know them all. vi
- Oakland, CA
October 1, 2015
INTERVIEW WITH
J. GORDON FAYLOR
Caleb Beckwith: In your recent interview with Tan
Lin over at Harriet, you give a really helpful account
of Gauss PDF’s founding. Would you mind, in few
sentences, recapping this for readers not familiar
with that piece? And maybe also expanding a bit
on the site’s editorial agenda—that is if Gauss even
has one? Also, how has any of this changed over
GPDF’s now four-year history?
J. Gordon Faylor: GPDF was catalyzed by a desire
common to many small publications/presses: wanting
the work of friends and others made more readily
available. I still find problematic the vetting processes
and sometimes latent conservatism promulgated by
publications/labels as a means of iterating a curationdetermined set, and wanted to enable a more open
platform for various cultural productions not limited
to, but including, poetics. Having spent a few years
in New York and Philadelphia, I was fortunate to
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find overlapping groups and networks sufficient for
getting a little Tumblr venture off the ground.
The initial fantasy was GPDF would function as a hub
specifically for audio—readings, studio productions of
published works (i.e., audiobooks). However, it quickly
became clear that by loosening these strictures and
including any kind of file type, the site could feasibly
encourage unexpected results.
The name is a pun on Gaussian probability distribution
functions (a type of dither) and Adobe’s popular Portable
Document Format file type. Moreover, “dither” also
suggests indecision, which pairs well with the indeterminate
material issued by GPDF.
No agenda, but maybe a haphazard pendularity
between a perceived ideal (i.e., that GPDF has nothing
to do with my preferences, and serves as a kind of
infrathin platform for the staging of submitted works)
and the messy reality of taste, limitations, rejection
emails, interviews and so on. That said, I like to support
work that doesn’t have an outlet elsewhere, as well
as “entities” that haven’t yet been published or made
known. Maybe this inclination comes from spending
time on Tumblr and Twitter, where the boundaries
between “artist” and “non-artist” are unclear. GPDF
welcomes the difficulties and challenges unusual or
This approach has changed very little, I think. I feel
very fortunate that the site has garnered support
(and, consequently, momentum) from individuals and
organizations, via social media and conversation—all
of which in turn has brought it to an international
audience.
Also the cover image changed once, and I started
using Typekit for some of the fonts. We moved to
San Francisco.
CB: Thanks for bringing up this lack of an agenda—
and also the limits that such an ideal can’t help but
encounter. The sheer variety of pieces housed on
Gauss remains, for me, one of the most compelling
aspects of the site. Looking now, around 3 p.m.
Eastern on Friday, September 5, the first three pieces
I see are Aidan Holmans’s video piece “Sometimes
I leave my house and feel like I’m still at home.,”
Leopold Brant’s (aka Felix Bernstein’s) book of poems
Dandyisms and a Rocksteady mix by Bloodfaceman.
Scrolling further, I see Eric Laska’s conversation before
leaving “Acting on Impulse” in Los Angeles this
summer, and Anna Crews’s “Smart Casual,” which
I might call a “catalog” first and “poem” second.
You’ll have to excuse the list here. The most recent
publications just exemplify this “perceived ideal”
without running into it—something that, I imagine
at least, might crash the site with infinitely large files.
unprecedented work can reveal.
2
3
I guess I first wonder how you see these pieces
interacting with each other. And if you even think
about this at all. And I now have a better way of
asking my first two questions: has the variety of
material received by GPDF changed over time?
And more importantly, how? Clearly exposure has
broadened both your reader and contributor list, but
do you feel that you’ve noticed any distinct aesthetic
shifts among the Gauss pool of writers/artists that
you’d feel comfortable attributing to larger cultural/
aesthetic phenomena? I imagine the sample size
might simply prove too large/diverse here. Yet I’ve
heard mention of a “Gauss aesthetic” in conversation
before, and, somehow, felt that I maybe understood
the statement—even though I couldn’t come close
to defining its terms.
As you might imagine, the obligatory question
concerning “conceptual writing” lies behind this
previous one. I’ve found that GPDF (along with
TROLL THREAD) inevitably comes up in conversation
about that seemingly controversial topic. I guess I’m
interested in knowing how, if at all, you see GPDF
engaging with conceptual-writing practices, and
whether that terminology is even valuable for the work
GPDF does.
JGF: The catalog’s progression is predicated on a
rather subjective and unreliable notion of sequence.
It’s unclear if this approach is legible to others or in
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fact goes some way toward synthesizing the catalog,
but it’s been quite helpful to me in terms of plotting
out a loose or obscure narrative thread between the
divergences of the hosted works.
Beyond that, there’s a lot of room for interaction
between the publications, whether explicit (as in
the case of Tonya St. Clair’s two published works, or
Feliz Lucia Molina and Reynard Seifert’s upcoming
collaboration, sections of which remix some of
Molina’s already-published writings) or implicit and
so resulting from social contingencies and shared
compulsions.
Given that the quantity of submissions GPDF receives
from “new” contributors (i.e., those who have not
yet appeared on the site) exceeds that of multiple
submissions from single contributors, it becomes
especially difficult to trace an evolutionary (or
retroactive) pattern. Even more so for me because
I’m “in it.”
I referred to a narrative compulsion above, but again,
this is more the product of a temporal aesthetic
or thematic resonance (a quiet strategy) than an
attempt to foster ideological coherence. It seems
like some other small presses/publishers take on, say,
a “personality” when communicating through social
media; this is something I want to avoid, though
maybe that is impossible.
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Additionally, I will say that it seems as though the
boundaries of certain media are thankfully becoming
less and less clear, and that these media crosspollinate on a more regular basis, both on GPDF
and elsewhere—the concern being not whether we
might call something an “image” or “poem,” but
where and how those terms might vanish or mutate
into one another, or what might be gained from
obfuscating quotidian reference points for such
productions. A side note: in my Harriet interview with
Tan Lin, I think I was a little wanton in my employing
the term “genre.” While I’d still argue that genre is
a helpful concept for delineating or even isolating a
certain practice, I no longer think that (for instance)
file type is commensurate with genre, though I’m
open to that notion being argued.
Besides, so much is out of “my” control: these
austere, managerial inclinations and terminological/
genre-prone scramblings remain helpless against the
processes of historicization, academic or otherwise.
GPDF, like TROLL THREAD, has a complicated
relationship with “conceptual writing” and other
strains of contemporary art, and some contributors
(myself included) are socially entwined with these. This
has obvious benefits, and in some way it has helped to
legitimize the site in an unwieldy and densely packed
American/international poetry/art milieu.
6
But it goes both ways: there’s always the chance for
crass reductionism, and people are always ready to
make assumptions based on affiliations. Differentiation
drives GPDF, but such attempts at nuanced distinction
may end up folded into themselves by a larger and
more established enterprise. I have a lot of admiration
for Felix Bernstein’s Notes on Post-Conceptual Poetry,
which situates GPDF as a kind of “post-conceptual”
publication, but I still admittedly do some handwringing over the designation.
This is all to say that, basically, I’m not sure what
the GPDF aesthetic is (maybe you could elaborate?).
In any case, it’s important that we continue questioning
the formal models that belie apparently unconsidered
productions.
CB: I totally feel your first point about genre distinctions.
This may prove a product of the communities I run
in, but it seems like nearly everyone I know who
produces writing of some sort inevitably produces
pieces containing more than. Of course, the focus on
writing within a particular medium itself presupposes
a particular attunement of attention—i.e., that we
focus on the text rather than on the codex if it
happens to appear in a book, or on the PDF from a
computer, etc.
What I mean is that, for writers working in the
contemporary moment, the bounds of writing and
7
poetry proper seem not only profoundly limited,
but very quickly eroding across the board. Things
like art books and websites have contained super
interesting language for a really long time, but the
cool thing is that I am now noticing a critical mass of
“writers” across various traditions (“conceptual” or
otherwise) viewing these media as another layer of
their projects. It’s as if the frame has expanded not
only from the stanza to the page, but from the page
or whatever to the desk, etc.
This is, of course, all old news to folks used to reading
not only works housed on sites like Gauss/TT, but also
the latter-twentieth-century’s history of innovative
writing. That said, I can’t reiterate enough how much
I wonder, do you notice these things? And is GPDF
even invested enough in subjects like the definition
of something called “poetry” for you to consider it?
And would elaborating on Felix Bernstein’s Notes get
us closer to that question?
JGF: Your zoom-out (poem-to-page-to-desk) is a
particularly helpful move regarding the developments
you discuss, though it may risk “mere” philosophizing
(e.g., existentialism, OOO). It’s an outward grappling
that emphasizes context and the incidental aspects of
production, possibly a way to suggest non-production.
Given the largely unexplored quality of this approach,
what eventually matters is the interpositioning of
a figure within a larger set of environments and
concepts. And to avoid phenomenology.
I’ve seen the influence of that supposed “Gauss
aesthetic” all over the place. I think of a workshop
with a poet writing about traditional concerns of the
self in a way that does not particularly interest me,
but incorporating things like IP address histories and
email patterns as a matter of course. I’d say this sort
of technological intervention leads out of where said
writer wanted to go and into some (for me, at least)
much more interesting places, but, the point of it
is, this sort of fissure seems to be spreading across
something we might call “poetry proper.” As a writer
with neither interest nor place in “the proper” (not to
mention “poetry”), I find this very exciting.
8
This also begs a kind of negative of the holistic or
recuperative reading of impelled “poetic” production
(i.e., the “poem” absorbs or becomes “life”). Rather,
we might ask, what refuses the work? By dint of the
technological framework through which a human’s
poem functions, there are technical/biological/
ecological limitations as well as surreptitious legal
backdrops. Google owns this correspondence, to
name one (though it has also been edited in Word).
These questions have helped me get through
the lurid swamp of so much essentialist and/or
metaphysical shit related to art, much of which posits
art as a kind of Romantic dominance over world and
9
identity, whereby conditions of reciprocal ecology
are subjugated to the poet’s processing technique
and style. The Great Pacific Garbage Patch is like
“our” selfie against the ocean; it exhibits a very real
will-to-power over one’s environment. On a much
smaller scale (and more pertinent to this “scene”)
consider the constant hyperbolics and flimsiness of
blurbs, the purpose of which is usually to translate
thematics into sales. Distinguishing releases by file
type allows GPDF in some small way to sidestep this
inclination via its ostensible “neutrality,” though of
course there is no real escape.
Also, something that pleases me about this approach
is the degree to which it allows for a multiplicity/
confluence of identities, as well as accident or
automation. To resign oneself to an agora as
expansive as the Internet may compel approaches
like appropriation and duplication—if only, say, as
self-immolating critique of its military-industrial
origins. And these are modes that haven’t even been
formally conceptualized so much as attitudinally
deployed, anyhow.
So these unexplored means of differentiation are
what excites GPDF, apparently, as these means
dispute the mire of personality and aesthetic that
constitutes so much “poetry discourse” and other
interfacing tactics. I’m not interested in a definition
for poetry so much as in the tensions its many
10
definitions exhibit when in the midst of other forms,
or when placed in a more general complex of
disciplines and approaches.
As for Notes: it does seem to register these categorical
breakdowns. When I first read it, I couldn’t tell whether
I should be reading it as performance or criticism
or memoir. Felix really covers a lot of ground
and speaks effectively to an impulse that may be
fictionalized enough to run through a number of
“younger” writers, though I’m not sure I can verify
that in any substantial way.
There is as well the consequence of staking territory
that accompanies any inaugural critical investigation
of a largely untouched group of writers and artists
(i.e., generating academic capital). Felix is aware
of this, or at least makes that difficulty palpable
and ironizes it. I’m not sure how much more I can
say, regretfully, as I hesitate to suggest that GPDF
publications (in general) are exemplary of any mode,
let alone the “post-conceptual.” Rather, it’s like
situating “reporting” against “curation”—to err on
the side of presentation rather than hermeneutics.
CB: I totally feel your imperative to “avoid phenomenology.”
It both says and does a ton in the context of our
conversation about the supposed challenges brought to
categories like “poetry” by GPDF and others. Having
mentioned it, I can’t help but also ask about GPDF’s
11
function within a larger literary landscape. I’ve found
that readers typically find a great deal of permission
in the array of works hosted by GPDF, manifest in
the categorization by file type, among other things.
I think it’s wise to avoid complicating that with any
direct comments on functionality for you as an
editor—especially for the weighted category of
“exemplary” works and the like.
I’d like to ask you, then, as a reporter, about another
work. I originally conceived this interview around
the time that Gauss released Steve McLaughlin’s
fantastic Puniverse. For those not familiar with the
work, Puniverse is a 57-volume work described by
Steve as:
being the ingenuous
crossing of an idiom set
and a rhyming dictionary
Outside of mentioning that I have seriously considered
buying all 57 material volumes from Lulu, I’ll avoid
getting into that work any further to avoid the
common conflation of example and exemplary.
However, I will ask what, if any, weight you give that
work as GPDF’s 100th release?
Or, if you’d prefer, maybe just anything on that work
in general. I’m currently revisiting it in all three file
formats (57 PDFs, one massive TXT doc and one
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Web 1.0 page labeled “nfo” that I’d somehow
missed until now), and it’s more striking than ever. I
have to admit that, upon its release, I did feel a pull
towards viewing this work as not so much exemplary
but as exhausting the perceived trope in conceptual
writing of categorically large works. It’s as if Puniverse
almost exhausts exhaustion, a gesture I can’t help
but appreciate both as a reader and writer. But my
response to Puniverse feels almost idiosyncratic at
this point.
JGF: I can’t deny subjectivity outright. But I guess
I also like to be dazzled sometimes. There is—I
confess—a celebratory/strategic purpose in placing
a work as unwieldy and beautifully executed
as Puniverse in the 100th slot, but I guess it shouldn’t
be construed as “representative” beyond a basic
grab at fleeting publicity. GPDF also gets into a
kind of oblique numeromancy or numerological
recurrence once in a blue moon, though this may
not be the best example.
Puniverse does engender some concerns related to
conceptual writing (e.g. textual automation, poetry
as informational output), but, beyond the relatively
simple premise that spurs the algorithm, I’d say that it
manages to generate humor (macro/micro) as well as
a narratological mystery—consequent to the unclear
pairing of an image from Shiv Kotecha’s stunning
Instagram account with each volume. Whereas the
13
algorithmic output will “unquestionably” perform
its function across the 57 volumes, the implications of
Kotecha’s images encourage questions or inferences of
“some” narrative, of entangled modes of expressivity
and inexpressivity. Anyhow, I love Puniverse, and Steve
is great in general. What’s up Steve.
– Fall 2014
INTERVIEW WITH
DANNY SNELSON
Caleb Beckwith: I’d like to talk about Epic Lyric
Poem as well as some related practices in so-called
conceptual writing. This may sound heterodox, but
I read ELP as a narrative in which the lyric plays the
central character. The book opens with an incantatory
proem, which it follows with an invocation of the
muses and a rising sense of conflict that ultimately
resolves. I may be reading too closely here, but I want
to ask about the role of narrative in this book. The
first word in the title is “Epic,” a highly established
form—maybe we can begin there.
Danny Snelson: I love this question, and, in fact,
maybe the title is wrong. Perhaps it should have
been “Epic Lyric Narrative Poem,” which might
have been a fine revision, though not nearly as
felicitous. Of course the epic has its own mode of
narrative written into the genre, and I think that’s very
clearly written into the piece, with the evocation of
14
15
Alexander Pope’s Rape of the Lock at the beginning
of the poem, and with various markers of the epic
as a genre throughout. For example, the invocation
of the muses, armaments for battle, long lists of
names and lineages of the people who transcribed
these lyrics. In this way, the work is structured both
to mirror and to mock, while also aiming to consider
the epic format as a functional genre—and as a
genre that was, you could say, the original narrative.
That would be one starting point. With regard to
lyric as the “central character,” given the process of
the poem, I might suggest that lyric is not a single
character, but rather five sequential characters: L, Y,
R, I and C. These characters combined as a string
enable the Python script to grab the lines with
which the poem was then sculpted. So l-y-r-i-c is
literally the character, but because of its recurrence
and continued presence in the poem, it is also the
string around which everything else circulates and
constellates. In that regard, I completely agree about
the idea of narrative in the poem. I’m not sure if that
got to your question or is already spinning off of
character and lyric toward points elsewhere.
Version 0.3.” But how was it arranged? Would you
CB: This is spinning off in a productive direction, but
I feel we should talk about the process by which this
text was arranged before going any further. All of the
language in ELP was drawn from a database listed
in the subtitle: “167121 Songs, 257.8 MB File Draft
I am very interested in the way that database
call it a conceptual procedure?
DS: From the beginning I would resist, in certain
senses, the idea of the conceptual, though I think
the work is engaged with a history of conceptual
practices. I would instead mark this as a kind of
editorial poetics, in that the work is more about
selection, emendation, distribution and publication
than any single “concept.” For example, the
project began within a particular context given
a concentrated set of interests. The composition
began by downloading a torrent file that contained
a plain-text file with an SQL extension that offered
a 167,121-song database as a resource for others
to create a lyrics website. These kinds of websites
typically make ad money by way of people searching
for, say, Ke$ha or Taylor Swift lyrics on the Internet.
Imagine someone seeking to find the song they’re
listening to. They type in a snippet and land on
one of these pages, where you would make ad
revenue based on each of these hits. This is the
kind of database that the poem draws from, and
was constructed (primarily ripped from amateur
transcriptionists, who themselves misrecognize the
lyrics they transcribe), the way that database was
distributed (via torrent file on the Pirate Bay) and
then later used (in the construction of lyric websites
16
17
for commercial interests). So ELP attempts to engage
these disparate elements simultaneously.
For my own part, I used it not to make one of those
websites, but rather to make this poem, which was first
derived by a Python script that Alejandro Crawford
helped me write. This script drew out every line that
had the strain “lyric” in it, and I put each into a raw
text file. I then recomposed each of those lines into
a standardized 55 characters per line. Finally, these
lines were arranged into 55 20-line stanzas to tell
a kind of narrative, an epic narrative that centers
around the character of the lyric and the way that
popular musicians speak about the lyrics (the lyric)
in their own work.
CB: Right. So when I talk about a narrative and you
talk about a database, we’re actually talking about
the same thing—that so much of the narrative comes
from the found language.
DS: Yes, and this is one of the fundamental questions
of new-media scholarship. The media scholar Lev
Manovich, in particular, is known for parsing the
relation of narrative to database (of course, there are
many justified detractors to his formulation, but his
work remains functional at a basic level for thinking
about ELP). In his take, narratives are bound to a kind
of linear reading process that we are accustomed to,
that is itself bound to the codex, a relatively stable
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cultural form. Then, there emerges popular access to
the database, which Manovich recognizes as a “new
cultural form,” primarily defined by the potential for
sorting and searching. The database offers a variety
of modes for navigating any set of data, but, naturally,
it’s always in tension with narrative forms. Take any
incursion through a database—say you Google
17 different topics in the course of 30 minutes: your
navigation through that database is a singular narrative.
As humans, we read narratively, in a kind of zig-zag line,
and I was interested in constructing a new line through
this particular database, and thinking seriously about
the supposed opposition (or, better, as Katherine
Hayles suggests, the symbiotic) relationship of
“database” and “narrative.” I like those two terms
as replacements for “epic” and “lyric,” actually.
CB: We’re used to reading through narrative (as you
mentioned with Google searches, where we’re
imposing a narrative), but there’s also a critical narrative
at play here. On the one hand, there is something
inherently narrative about the contemporary lyric,
despite the fact that it is commonly thought of as
a historical replacement of the epic form, which is
very narratively driven. ELP, however, also seems to
replace the lyric with…something else. As much as
we’re talking about the lyric, your project is arranged
through this other practice. I don’t think I’d be the
only reader to read the possibility of a teleology in
this book, one in which epic leads to lyric and lyric
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leads to something…else. Maybe that something
else isn’t so-called conceptual writing, but something
affiliated with it?
DS: I think I both adore and despise that question.
Of course, I’m very interested in what forms poetry
might take today (tomorrow). I mean, we’re at an
unprecedented moment of technological transformation.
It’s a shift on the level of the emergence of the codex. As
a media scholar I am very interested in these changes,
and, as a poet, I’m interested in how they might create
the conditions of possibility for new modes of creative
expression. I think that the turn to algorithms and
databases, to networked databases and digital
communications, is fundamental to understanding
“poetry” or “writing” more generally in our present
moment. This poem tries to explore some of that. It
attempts to engage with what’s changed (and what
remains) in our access to language, knowledge and
culture through the technologies that have become
pervasive in our present situation. This reminds
me: I think the only term we haven’t discussed yet
is “poem”—what is it that a poem does and what
might it do today?
CB: That’s the word I attempted to avoid.
DS: Ha, fair enough. However, I should add that ELP
is structured as poem (as po-em) in the most classical
sense, and does try to think about what a poem can
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do: how an antiquated and unpopular form like the
poem can engage with culture, with technology,
with writing systems. How it might address the
contemporary.
CB: This might be a good time to highlight the
profoundly human elements of this book. I’m thinking
about the function of repetition and your use of
paratext. The most common paratext in ELP is digital
detritus: user emails, autogenerated content from lyric
sites, and even Yahoo Answers-style chatter. These
appear a lot, and they often dovetail with the literary
device of repetition. I think about the line “when it
comes to blood and rap it’s lyrical combat,” which
repeats five times. How do these human element
differ? How does the decision to include them get
made, and what function do you see them having?
DS: I think there are two questions here. The first
is the question about the human, and the second
concerns repetition. First, regarding the human,
this is a question I am intensely concerned with in
all of my works: what is it that a human can still do
that an algorithm can’t do? Unlike certain strains of
conceptual poetry, I have no interest in becoming
a machine. In many ways, algorithms can already
write beautiful lyric poetry; algorithms can write
convincing articles increasingly well; algorithms
can write beautiful, touching novels increasingly
well. So I am interested in isolating what it is that
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humans can do well, and I think that revolves around
choice—something like a classic idea of agency. In
poetry I see this as the realm of diction and editing,
including modes of selection, choice and agency. In
this instance, I am very interested in what acts I can
introduce into this database, this archive of song
lyrics, how I might function as a human (writer) within
the bounds of a specified system.
That’s on one side of the human question. On the
other side of this particular work are questions about
the act of transcription. This particular database was
compiled by many independent users. We don’t
have algorithms that can listen to, say, a country
song or a hip-hop lyric or especially a death-metal
song and be able to parse that into intelligible
language. Siri and YouTube still fuck up. That’s why
these texts are still written by fans who transcribe
the lyrics of their favorite artists and upload them
onto various forums on the Internet, which can then
be gathered and aggregated together to produce a
massive SQL file like the one I downloaded for ELP.
It’s a collective effort with a huge number of actual
humans trying to express their fandom (their feelings)
by transcribing the lyrics of their favorite artists. ELP
splices many technical and user-based errors, which
is why it retains so many artifacts. These are artifacts
not just from encoding errors, but also from the
ways in which different users (a very heterogeneous
set of people) transcribed music that was deeply
22
meaningful to them, and that’s one very big part of
the poem.
Now to address repetition: repetition is one of the
fundaments of poetry, so now we’re getting back
to questions of poesy. As we discussed earlier, the
repetition of sound (whether it’s rhyme, alliteration,
consonance or meter) is built into the idea of what
poetry does. It’s also one characteristic that poetry
shares with popular music. Poetry, by definition, pays
attention to the formal qualities of language. In this
work, I’m trying to invent a new form of repetition.
Iterations of the word “lyric” are both constructive
and concentrating elements in this project. Obviously
it’s what culled the lines. But what may not be so
obvious is that, from the 167,000 songs, there are at
least 10-30 times as many lines that could have been
used. In the end, I decided on a very concentrated
set of lines built around the repetition of the word “lyric.”
The word obviously carries a multitude of meanings,
but for this work, I found that when musical artists or
lyricists talk (explicitly) about their lyrics, they express
certain things not mentioned elsewhere. There is a
kind of self-reflection to the utterance. Lines with
“lyric” express a certain set of emotions, affects,
arguments and positions. So I wanted to explore
what different writers meant when they use the word
“lyric.”
23
This is, coincidentally, where I found the alignment
between the epic and the lyric. Lyrics in hip-hop are
typically boasting (for example: “they call me lyrical
champion”). With death metal it’s often a kind of
anachronism (as in: “ye old lyrics of fire”), while in
emo it’s often one’s most heartbroken, self-reflexive
moment. The fact that all of these are self-reflexive
moments forms another layer of interest for me. You
know: “I wrote these lyrics to you from my lonely
bed”—this kind of expression. Across the board
there is a self-awareness when one uses the word
“lyric” while writing lyrics, and that leads to how you
rhyme with “lyric.” How do you place a sentence that
has the word “lyric” in it within your song, and then
what role does that play in the larger idea of music
and songwriting in general? All of these things are
at play in the work.
CB: Maybe now we can talk about the way that this
very large database compresses into a relatively
small book. When I heard about the project, I
honestly expected it to continue the conceptual
trope of unreadably large books, but I was able to
read this book twice within an hour on an airplane.
It seems like a really concentrated selection of lyrics
in which the lyric is referenced. Clearly hip-hop
belongs here because of the boasting trope you
mentioned—same for emo or also death metal. So
along what lines did these lyrics fall, and how does
that inform the construction of the poem in your
24
mind? Obviously there’s a ton that gets left out (i.e.,
when lyric is talked about and when it’s not). How
did that come to shape maybe not narrative, but the
poem at large?
DS: To begin with, this was composed over the
course of five or six years, and a great deal of
time was put into writing this relatively small book.
This is at the opposite end of the spectrum to the
conceptual pattern of enormous books being
produced with a minimum of labor. This is a laborintensive, tiny poem, which is (like all the poems that
mean anything to me) largely historical. I mean, I’m
trained as an English scholar. I like my Keats, I like my
Pope, and they’re not long, you know? Rape of the
Lock is not a really long poem, but, well, it is epic. An
obvious joke in the title plays on the dual meaning
of “epic” in contemporary parlance. There was a lot
of time and thought given to each word placed in
its particular location. This is the tradition I wanted
to tap—akin to No. 111 instead of, say, Soliloquy,
where a single day can produce a massive book that
is impressive in the sheer weight of its pages.
CB: We’re also talking about genres, how/why certain
genres keep popping up. I find myself very interested
in the intersection of rap, emo and death metal on
display here. I wonder about the function of selfreflexivity in these different genres, and how they
might interact with ELP’s interest in the poem and, as
25
you say, what poems can do. I think about the ways
that those popular genres inform the specialized
field of poetry, and therefore the way we receive ELP
in this conversation. Let’s say you’re working with
primarily hip-hop, emo and death-metal songs to
make a statement about Pope, Stein, Laura Riding
and the contemporary poet Heriberto Yépez. I
wonder how those things dialog—what you make
of that disjunction.
broken. This is what the work that the poets you
mention does. And what Pope did, I think, in his work
as well. I probably keep insisting on Pope because I
was trained to think of his poems as essays on how
to write poetry. There’s a pedagogical function that
happens as they enact language in the expression of
an argument. The lines about lyrics in the pop-music
database seem to come nearest to addressing that
same property.
DS: That’s really beautifully put. I love that you brought
Stein, Riding and Yépez into the conversation. I would
also bring in Charles Bernstein. It would be interesting
to compare the number of times Bernstein, or any
of the poets you mention, uses the word “lyric,” as
opposed to, say, Billy Collins.
CB: I immediately start wondering about the persistence
of the lyric when faced with the contemporary glut of
language made available by Internet technologies.
Despite the supposed death of the lyric via conceptual
and other innovative writing practices, the lyric not
only survives, but thrives. You don’t even have to write
the lyrics included in this book to make money off of
them. One could simply download the database you
use, create a Google-indexed lyric site, and rake in
the advertising revenue. I wonder, then, about the
persistence of the lyric as a popular genre in the
environment of late-late capitalism.
CB: Who writes lyric poetry…
DS: In the colloquial sense, yes. I would be very
interested to know how many times Collins mentions
lyrics while writing them. I would imagine it’s very
few. There are also genres of music that use that
particular string more often than others, which was
immediately apparent in writing the piece. It might
be interesting to think about what genres are not
represented. How many punk-rock songs sing about
their own lyrics? Punk lyrics are not a facade, typically,
not a mediating force, but a direct address. However,
there are also instances when the fourth wall gets
26
DS: Exactly, and here are some of the provocations,
right? I think it’s both incredibly fascinating and, in
many ways, sad that songwriting is not part of the
discourse of poetry. I know you and I both work very
intensely on sound, and sound poetry is, in some
ways, a kind of strange bridge. This is a bridge that
Tracie Morris perhaps walks better than anyone, this
27
bridge between popular forms (in, say, songwriting
and slam poetry) as well as experimental poetics and
experimental sound art. But those lines of connection
are not made very often, even though we all listen
to music and we all have our favorite songs. I want
to think about the right word for how music and
language merged together in the development of
poetic forms. As Zukofsky said, “An integral / Lower
limit speech / Upper limit music.” This is the realm
in which poetry should play, and had played back
with bards singing the epic poems, right? These
poems were sung. They were not spoken in (ha!) the
poetry voice we hear today. I’m trying to see how
these things might interface more productively, and
how we might think about an expanded idea of a
poem or poetry that includes not just our small little
pocket of language and letters, but the very large
and expanded world of language in the service of
art, language in the service of music, language in all
instances not in the service of communication and
speech, not as an instrumental function. That’s what
really interests me.
CB: When I think of ELP and engagement, I think
about how it pushes against the traditional binary
constructed between the human and paratextual.
Some of the paratextual moments in this text remain
the most human. Whereas I earlier joined the
paratext with repetition, I now want to talk about
the way it often appears as digital debris like broken
28
HTML tags and dead URLs. I guess I think of this
digital trash as profoundly human texture—as the
digital footprint of the transcriber’s affection for a
song. How does this trash (this digitally produced
material) mesh with the commodity of these highly
stylized lyrics?
DS: I spent a lot of time working over each one of
these lines, and it was a very pointed decision not
to get rid of the detritus. In addition to the email
addresses of the people who wrote these lyrics,
there’s also a long section of thanks. “Thanks to Soand-So…” occurs a number of times. There is also
significant attribution to the people who originally
wrote the lyrics, in addition to the transcribers. Let
me see if I can find one really quickly, because I think
that would be useful.
CB: I have some: “Music lyrics Barry, Buck, Stipe,”
“Lyrics Scott Engold,” “Music Richard Thompson,”
“Music Ministry,” “Music Lou Reed.”
DS: That’s great. So these are the people
who wrote the lyrics to the original songs
getting some attribution, but that’s not all.
There are also lines that are like: “Thanks to
Mismatch2790@hotmail.com for these lyrics,”
“Thanks to CondeConay@aol.com for correcting
this lyric,” “Thanks to WhitneyHill84@directway.com
for these lyrics,” “Thanks to SweetStuff4780@hotmail.com
29
for these lyrics.” I had to edit the email addresses.
These are not actually their email addresses because
I had to make them the right length, so I just put in
whatever I wanted for those.
CB: You also don’t want to insert real people into a
poem.
DS: Well, but these are real people here, despite
the masking. These are real people who wrote
the lyrics that countless others used, freely, in any
number of ways. They were part of the database that
I downloaded, but I see this also as the listing of the
lineage. So if “lyric” is a character, this is a character
not borne of gods, nor of a king and a queen, but
rather borne of the efforts of an unknowable set of
individuals. It’s borne of email addresses, people
who are only recorded as an email address. This
is where I think these long, traditional genres
and forms of poetry intersect with contemporary
technology. It’s also why there is so much detritus. I
wanted to preserve the sense that, while there are
humans working at this interface, this is an interface
that’s driven by machines. This is ASCII. This is plain
text. There are tons of errors and artifacts, and it
seems important to preserve them. In this way I’m
very much inspired by the work Tan Lin has done in
Heath and other places, where he tries to navigate
between these various reading systems: human
beings that exist on networks, that feel within an
30
overwhelmingly deterministic technological network
for expression. So another character in this poem is
the character of distortion, the character of noise
within the fluid mechanisms of information capital.
Which might be another name for the human?
CB: So if all of this has so much meaning…I wonder
about the end of the poem. The last section begins
“These lyrics are frivolous, they really have no
meaning.” I wonder about this negating gesture,
which I can’t read as only ironic effacement, given
all of the sophisticated work that’s gone on before
it. This is another incredibly human moment in the
text, and not just a human moment for the people
who submitted, but also for a de facto speaker.
Throughout ELP we get a picture of the lyric as a
mode of human expression being transformed,
though not effaced, by technology. Not effaced,
because there are all these confessional moments
in these lyrics, their URLs. If this is the case, what
happens with the appearance of a subjectivity at the
end of ELP—one that I hadn’t sensed since, maybe,
the beginning?
DS: Hmm. That’s really interesting. I think it’s part of
the heterogeneity. The next line is: “Sit down and
tell me about your last lyrical meltdown,”
CB: And then we get “Lyrical Voltron.”
31
DS: Yeah, and it continues to think about witness,
right? “These lyrics were taken from an edition of
The Witness / Deep like the bottom of a pit, lyrics
I spit like grit / Messages as well as lyrics to all the
top songs,” which is clearly indicative. As is: “I said
my lyrics is my testimony that’s how I live need.”
The arrangement of witness and testimony is an
important one to me, and I think as writers we are
witnessing the Internet in the same way that artists
and writers might once have witnessed the industrial
revolution or any other paradigm shift. We’ve spoken
about the role of historiography in the past, about
the idea of archeology, between scholarship and
an editorial poetics. In this position one is not just
reconstructing the narrative as it was, but is always
constructing something new—a new artifice for the
telling of history, for the witnessing of history. And
this was the role of epic poetry. Epic poetry was the
record of the people, and it was told by the same
kind of massive redundancy that currently sustains
Wikipedia. It was told by a massive redundancy as
a way to remember, even if it was just through the
oral transmission of voices, to write the histories that
might otherwise be forgotten. This is a thought in
which I remain invested, and I think there are the
conflicting ideas of frivolous (and in many ways a lot
of these lyrics are really frivolous) and everlasting
lyrics. One of my favorite lines is “Korn appears here
instrumentally only, not lyrically.” These are some
frivolous lines! I don’t want to be too grandiose
32
about the poem, but there is something about
the frivolous that also taps the idea of witness,
that taps the idea of recording one’s place in time,
history and genre—particularly in the tiny world of
contemporary poetics. Every single one of these
lyrics made thousand of times more money (and
reached untold figures of audience) than any poem
written at the same time.
Despite this seeming futility, I still think of the poet
as a kind of witness to the present. I remain invested
in the traditional idea of the poet as someone who
sets in language, in a way that reflects on form and
language, the way in which stories are told for the
future. There seems to be a story to tell the future
from within this particular moment, which is so
technologically and politically vexed. We have all
these new forms that we have no clue what to do
with. Everything on the Internet right now shows
that we don’t know what to do with our platforms.
We don’t know how to express ourselves with
algorithms. We don’t know what the role of the
human is in a technological network that appears so
overwhelmingly powerful and deterministic. We are
figuring that out, and I think the more reports from
that field, reports as witness, as testimony, the better
(and, if I may take an aside to be specific: I’m thinking
of testimony as a statement of belief rather than
knowledge). I think that leap of faith (to use still more
religious language here at the end) is something that
33
the poet is obliged to take, establishing one of the
more vital roles that the poet can play.
CB: I think so. If this book is a document of something,
for me it’s the problem that our most moving
collective moments are almost always commodities
(like the lyrics you use), yet affectively bonding
nonetheless. I think of the way these events have
been conformed in a contemporary setting, all the
more moving because of their deep entrenchment.
I think of watching the NBA finals with a group of
radical poets.
DS: This is the difficulty of the contemporary, and
I think a poet’s duty is to not shy away from these
questions or discard these cultural practices—but
to think alongside them. If I may cite the mock-epic
epigraph: “In tasks so bold, this little Poem engages.”
– Spring 2015
34
INTERVIEW WITH
DIVYA VICTOR
Caleb Beckwith: In a recent introduction, the poet
Eric Schmaltz described your work as “uncomfortable.”
He speaks specifically of Race Card—in which
audience members are forced to match your skin tone
with the fleshy options presented by a paint strip, or
else refuse to read your race and therefore “deny
[your] presence.” One can immediately read this
piece, along with Vanessa Place, as “the continued
underrepresentation of minorities in small press
publishing as well as traditional publishing houses.”
There’s a lot to say here, but I’d like to ask about
discomfort. I feel a great deal of discomfort not only
in this description of Race Card (where I immediately
imagine myself as a white audience member) but
also in your full-length poetry volumes like Things
To Do With Your Mouth, UNSUB, Natural Subjects.
Would it be fair to read discomfort as binding your
poetics? As a foundation? Insert your own metaphor
of continuity here if you like.
35
Divya Victor: Discomfort is certainly binding. After
all, we tend to cluster away from things and people
who make us uncomfortable. As the inverse of the
warm-fuzzies, this affect really does produce a kind
of binding among audience members, but one
that tends to keep them disarticulated from each
other. So it is binding through disarming, alarming,
displeasing—rather than through pleasing, relating,
comforting. (How far is a swaddle from a straitjacket?)
I’ve been invested in producing discomfort for a
very long time, and increasingly as a complement
to aesthetic pleasure. This is tied to a larger political
effort to thwart or prevent happiness from occurring
in public places. Jamaica Kincaid has spoken in
multiple venues about divesting readers of the
pursuit of happiness, and I’m similarly curious about
how a racially marked poet can curb an other’s
enthusiasm for reaching over, feeling closer to
ciphers of ethnic experience, or even assuming that
I endure one and its purported contents.
There is a long and devastating genealogy that I
am a part of, as an aesthetic and cultural producer
who appears Indian and female. My kind has served
the sensual, spiritual and aesthetic comfort of white
audiences since the mid-1800s, through American
strains of neo-Orientalism: from Emerson calling his
wife “mine Asia” to philosophical rationalizations
of Oriental Primitivism—of history originating in a
36
mysterious East (ex oriente lux). This has, in turn,
supported the rationalized colonization of a people
prone to affect and spiritual decay or fecundity
(depending on which side of the journey you were
on). So even while Thoreau, Whitman and Emerson
were consuming an Indian mysticism to rehabilitate
and comfort the industrializing, alienated, bereft
white American “soul,” American missionaries were
conquering souls of brown folk, those “naked ‘niggers
[of Calcutta], members of a race...all such miserable,
fawning, cringing, slavish cowards, especially when
flogged.’” Add to this the pleasures of the Nautch
girls, the peddling of Indian trinkets at the Jersey
shore in the mid-1800s, the effusion of mystical,
cross-cultural, high-capital exchange of The Beatles,
the gritty heroism of Patrick Swayze in City of Joy,
and the banal inclusivities of The Big Bang Theory
and the general jai ho of the Indian geist, and you’ll
notice the trend in the interior décor we’ve provided
the American consumer’s soul from the nineteenth
century onwards. So I find that the racial critique has
to at least begin with the refusal to be the American
avant-garde’s Deepak Chopra.
My newly forged (as in, imitation) hyphenation
between “American” and “Indian” has necessitated a
greater vigilance against being a comforting minority
presence anywhere: in public, in publishing, in my
poetics. I want a poetics of racialized experience that
remains inassimilable for both marked and unmarked
37
audiences, and this has often meant withholding
pleasure, divesting the audience of its pursuit of
happiness. If Indian-Americans, as “model minorities,”
have been the state’s chosen “solution” to Du Bois’s
singular question of the “negro problem” (as Vijay
Prashad, whom I quoted earlier, has theorized and
criticized), then my poetics of discomfort is one way
of challenging the state-sanctioned representation
of this marked life as a solution—a way of preventing
its truths from becoming a pamphlet intended to
make you feel better.
CB: I wonder about the modes of discomfort in your
work. As a white, male-bodied reader who happens
to be an American citizen, the discomfort I feel while
reading UNSUB varies wildly from the experience
of a text like Natural Subjects, which explicitly uses
first-person narratives and immigration documents
as part of its estrangement (this is also to say nothing
of the radical Things To Do With Your Mouth). Of
course there are also similar enough moves that I
can’t help but see these first two mentioned texts in
a series. Whereas UNSUB appropriates and erases
FBI descriptions of unidentified subjects, Natural
Subjects similarly reworks documents associated
with the United States’ immigration naturalization
process. I wonder about the lines you draw between these
works. Are they primarily lines of similarity—possibly
38
from the related sourced documents? Or do you
see more difference, with the presence of a firstperson narrative signaling a differing horizon of
expectations for the work? DV: I would say that one never “happens to be an
American citizen.” A state of citizenry is also a choice.
And it presumes prescribed forms of loyalty, which
(as Natural Subjects cites) include the promise to
kill those who threaten individuals who “happen”
to be American. That is, becoming a naturalized
citizen involves making the necropolitical promise
to destroy other civilian threats. This is something
non-naturalized citizens are often unaware of, or do
not “undertake” explicitly. What matters is whether,
depending on your position and privilege, this
choice (the “happenstance” of citizenry) was made
for you by yourself or by another social agent (read:
conditions of globalization and uneven development).
Natural Subjects is interested in the conditions and
contradictions of this choice-making. It cares about
the way some of us fashion ourselves, as immigrants,
out of the conceits of imaginary belonging and the
material implications of these imaginary belongings:
the proscriptions and freedoms of owning private
property; the payment of certain kinds of taxes
and the protections from other moral and ethical
taxations that ought to trouble us (but don’t). They
ought to trouble us because the forms of citizenry
I left behind (Indian, Singaporean) are, in turn,
39
affected and constrained by my current nation. In
other words, when I talk about achieving citizenry
through naturalization, I am also talking about which
side of the trade treaty I end up on, and what this
means for the survival of some over others. (After all,
“citizen” comes from dENiZEN, which is now a Target
Corporation native brand of denim!)
UNSUB (short for “unidentified subject”) is interested
in the inverse of these conditions that nevertheless
produce the survival of some over others. So yes,
these books are linked. UNSUB is interested in
the very unsubjects (those unnamed, unidentified,
disappearing and disappeared people) who
fall outside imaginary belonging (those alleged
suspects and criminals who are constructed to be
our Others—the threats to our very belonging here
as citizens). What I learned in making UNSUB is that
the unidentified subject (the subject of an FBI hunt)
must resemble us enough for us to follow a scent,
but must be monstrous enough to be the object of
that hunt. I actually learned that through the banal
thralls of Law & Order: SVU, but learned it again
through cutting and pasting my own complicity into
a publishing platform.
I use official discourse and government documentation
to study how these subjects (the naturalized citizen
and the alleged criminal unsub) are introduced into
the social imaginary. How do we become them
40
or become because of them? What is the “we”
made possible by the answer to that question?
Natural Subjects draws from Homeland Security
documents, passport-photo prescriptions, online
immigration forums, manuals for slaughtering large
mammals. UNSUB draws from the FBI’s and CIA’s
“Most Wanted” lists, published explicitly for citizens—
who in turn become bounty hunters through their
commiseration with official discourse. Headhunters
are now just people on their laptops, who could use
the $1,000,000 for pointing out an “alleged member
[who] wears eyeglasses, a moustache, a beard.”
So the citizen studies, documents and creates documents,
in order to become “documented” so that she, in turn,
becomes the addressee of other official documents
designed to apprehend those whom we find don’t
belong to us. See something/say something, right?
The official anthem of public life: the sphere circles
the panopticon; we must be penitent in the Catholic
sense (show publicly our sorrow) in the privacy of
surveillance pacts. UNSUB documents how the forum,
quite unsubjectively, comes from the forensic—the
detection of the detested.
The concerns of both these books are linked, as I’ve
suggested here, but stylistically they could not be
more different. UNSUB remains highly restrained,
minimalist, almost wry in its reproduction of official
discourse. Natural Subjects is openly self-involved
41
and emotionally implicated with its own production
because it spins autobiography by the midriff
and swells to considering a conflicted narrative of
belonging with and separating from white, European
(and often fictional) women who are forced into
naturalizations of other kinds: Eliza Doolittle of My
Fair Lady, Maria Von Trapp of the Sound of Music,
Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler, and so on. So that book is
self-involved with a “self” evolving (ostensibly) under
the regimes of high literature and low Hollywood
pop culture, when we all know the true regime is that
of the dollar sign—the one we were all born under.
its sumptuous cover image. I’m wondering: do you
consider these works in the same genre, despite
their profound aesthetic dissimilarities? How helpful
do you find questions of genre when it comes to
contextualizing your work? And might I be muddling
these questions of subject and genre in your work? I suppose Natural Subjects is quite ready to claim
a first-person narrative, and to say that yes, this
is a book about how I was made. But UNSUB is
also, despite its seeming aloofness, a book about
how I was made—the very thing that points to the
unnaturalness of all us natural subjects.
Obviously “genre” is a loaded term when it comes
to outlining one’s aesthetics in a collection of
“conceptual-affiliated” writers, so let me take the
opportunity to spell it out a bit more clearly. I’m not
asking whether/how you feel these volumes fit in with
a colloquial understanding of so-called conceptual
writing. To read through such a strict lens would be
unfair to both these works and, more importantly,
you as a writer. What I do want to ask about is how
genre may or may not inform work published under
the name Divya Victor—possibly published by
presses with pre-established conceptual affiliations. CB: Thanks for dealing with these rather serious
questions as we boil it down to the self here. That’s
the quantity to which we reduce all writing, right?
A personal narrative dressed in the trappings of
genre—be it lyric, conceptual or otherwise. I’d like
to push on the part of your answer that I joke about
here: the relation of a (not “the”) subject in your
work and questions of genre. UNSUB is short for
“unidentified subject.” Natural Subjects fleshes out
its title, but offers a different sort of flesh (beef) in
Perhaps another angle of approach might help. You
mention UNSUB in relation to SVU, which reminds
me of a long-standing theory I have about that
Law & Order spinoff: I believe it’s the most popular
because it’s the one case in which we, as an audience,
don’t secretly wish the bad guy would get away.
Restricting the cases to the SVU (which investigates
sexual crimes) allows us to condone the narrative
flatness of the “bad guy,” and temporarily buy the
fictional righteousness of these cops. I mention this
42
43
theory because, by asking about genre, I’m also
asking about how the television-watching subject
Divya Victor interacts with the author “Divya Victor,”
and what happens if we start reading a fuller subject
into so-called conceptual writing. What if we started
reading these works as products of meat rather than
machine?
DV: Law & Order: SVU wages the ancient battle of
good versus evil over the bodies of sexual-assault
and rape victims, while pandering to the pleasure of
viewers and reinforcing hegemonic understandings
of victimhood, urban space, racialization, sexual
consent. It offers libidinal explanations for structural
problems, because no one likes a castrated
capitalism. We want our demons with their balls on,
please. I’m afraid a lot of lovely lyric, confessy, crushaesthetics, post-selfie poetry does this—offering the
remnant body as evidence for how it once existed
with a purported subject (awkward roommates),
offering access to an imagined authorial position
(doggy). Authorial disclosure appears in the game
of show and don’t tell, or don’t show and do tell
(variations thereof). This is the good cop/bad cop
of the scopophilic-poetics trade that we’re all part
of. And this impulse is part of an aesthetic approach
to representing gendered bodies as things to be
loved into safety by readers—what Vanessa Place
has called, in a very different context (her crucial
The Guilt Project), “voyeur vigilantism.” I like it more
44
when poetries make this impulse transparent, or
make the act of making it transparent elsewhere.
Some poetry that can be called conceptual does this.
In poetry that can’t be thought of (méconnaissance:
ignorable/can’t be known) as conceptual, the poet’s
strategies apparently need to keep the (linebreak)
reader (linebreak) long enough to read the subject
into existing, into survival, into being loved and
cared for—that is, cared about. We value the act of
caring about things while reading. It makes poetry
really feel useful.
You know, one of the least interesting things implied
in Marjorie Perloff’s über-blurby blurb about Claudia
Rankine’s Citizen is this notion that the book offers
an answer to the question “What does it mean to
be a black citizen in the US of the early twenty-first
century?” This is the fantasy of the most valued
poetry books (and the fantasy about our most
valued poets): that they both pose the questions
and offer the answers; that they produce care in
readers. The people who turn to poetry for such
answers are the people who watch Law & Order:
SVU to understand something about the discipline of
punishment—because they think they haven’t been
the subjects of disciplinary or racialized experience
all along. Perloff’s blurb casts poetry as a voyeuristic,
utilitarian enterprise, and I don’t think that is what is
most important about Rankine’s book.
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I think “genres” (binaries like lyric/conceptual,
Language/documentary, etc.) are another way of
reducing poetry into something that is inclined to offer
answers to questions that can be posed in blurbs like
Perloff’s. Which means it is a way of reducing poetry
to utility, activity, coterie.
Genre can be useful when writing about poetry—
less so when reading it. If you want to make poetry
answer your own questions (Am I fat? Am I good?
Am I useful? Am I famous?), genre can be very useful.
But it can just as often obscure questions posed
by the poetry itself. And what good is something
like that for a poet like me? Historically, “genre”
has greater stakes for scholars, curators, editors,
grant writers, funders and foundations than for the
author who is composing—and I do compose, even
through my discomposure as a labeled tag “Divya
Victor” or “Conceptual” on some blog post or tweet
or conference paper or review. I think (pro)claiming
genre is another way of not looking the author in
the eye.
CB: Your description of genre reminds me of a line
from the Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan classic romantic
comedy You’ve Got Mail. This is the film in which
Tom Hanks’s character runs a Barnes & Noble clone
threatening to close down the quirky independent
bookstore run by Meg Ryan. The two have also been
anonymously corresponding, and falling in love, via
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email for a number of months. Prior to discovering
that the sensitive Jane Austen fanatic she’s spent
months falling for is also the capitalist tycoon
she’s hated for almost as long, Ryan snidely tells
Hanks: “If I knew you, I know exactly what I would
find. Instead of a brain, a cash register. Instead of a
heart, a bottom line.” The obvious joke here is just
how wrong Ryan becomes. As the movie ends, she
retracts this statement in an Aristotelian moment
of recognition as she discovers Hanks’s Internet
identity—immediately proclaiming: “I wanted it
to be you, I wanted it to be you so badly.” Aside
from the overwhelming neoliberal optimism of late
’90s America Online (AOL) culture, I take the moral
of You’ve Got Mail to be the overturning of Ryan’s
earlier sentiment. Via the post-cyberpunk capitalist
dreamscape of AOL/AIM, Ryan learns that Hanks has
a heart and a brain; he only dedicates those two
towards the accumulation of capital during business
hours.
I mention this film because it illustrates the
revolutionary nature of your seemingly modest
imperative to look writers in the eye. In You’ve
Got Mail, Ryan’s “problem” is that Hanks’s deep
inculcation within capitalism prevents her from
seeing clearly when she literally looks him in the eye
during several face-to-face encounters. Even when
she believes herself to be “looking through” him,
discerning the cash register and bottom line in place
47
of internal organs, all she sees are her own feelings of
Hopefully the critical use of SJW here signals an
class conflict—staged on the battleground of chain
exaggeration with a radical agenda, but I wanted
versus independent seller of mass-market novels. It
to open our conversation to this much larger issue
is as if the film says: “The world is crazy. Capitalism
of poetry, politics and genre—before locking eyes
is a jungle. And the wonderful commodity that is the
with you/your work in an exchange this conversation
Internet helps us see through the brush of our daily
won’t dare break.
hustle.” In and after millennial neoliberalism, the eye
cannot be trusted.
DV: OK, let me say this, since we’re not talking
about poetry, but rather the places in which we
At least in our present moment, when genre tags
try to be “poets” (i.e., on Facebook and in the
and social-media activity are becoming dominant
after-reading stupor smoking the “I quit but…”
ways of reading poetry, I notice writing communities
cigarette). I used to get really irritated at my mom
following the logic of You’ve Got Mail. There seems
for posting on my Facebook feed—and she would
to be a belief among many (though certainly not
post some universally “mom” things. Like, if there
all) that one’s most intimate impressions of writers
was a review of my work that praised its stripped
and their work might not prove reliable. I think of
affective economy, she’d write “I’m so proud of
statements like the following:
you!”; if I posted something I thought was just the
right balance between acrid wit and performed
I liked this author’s reading, but I heard he/she
sincerity, she’d come and shatter that balance
posted something fucked up on Facebook in
with “You always know just what to say!” What I
support of/against (insert conceptual writer here).
wanted to say to her: “I don’t want them to know
This writer seems super intelligent and politically with
I am anyone’s child. I want to be a pure construct
it in person, but the project didn’t fully articulate
of managed affects and data movement. My whole
that radicalism in a way I’m already prepared to
career depends on them believing that I believe this.”
recognize. I should check his/her Facebook feed so I
Of course I needed this because of the genre tag
can know whether or not he/she is actually radical by
on my name—are conceptual poets allowed to have
counting the number of trending obligatory articles
mothers? I don’t think so. (If they were, then you’d
about (enter SJW-approved controversy here). This
have to admit something about their history, their
project must not be political.
poverty, their race, etc. So better not.)
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49
I realized, after the initial bluster of annoyance
and embarrassment (“Mom, WHY?!”), that her
interruption of my carefully sculpted social-network
affects and circulation was as threatening to me
(in my loss of control over the neoliberal tool of
marketing my “self” as a semiotic hologram) as it was
symbolically useful to her in the construction of her
Internet momness. Facebook for me was like being
at a cool conference and sitting next to my mom’s
uterus, like, “Hey, this is where I come from. Yes, I’m
glad you think I’m problematizing subjectivity.” Her
Facebook role was to remind me of that Kristevan
“milk skin”—the abject veil. She kept returning to pull
at the thickening cream right on the surface of my
purportedly neutral, manageable substance. That
skin (like Hamlet’s awful arras) behind which all of
my neurotic signifiers stood with their feet sticking
out, was the very thing she was motherfucking up.
I enjoy this shaming and mistaken identity more
theoretically, of course, because it makes quite
transparent how much everyone is laboring to
curate affects on Facebook and Twitter. To me,
social networking resembles nothing more than
the kind of constant labor described by Sontag
in her critique of leisure-class photography. The
compulsive construction of and conspicuous
consumption of images on social networks promotes
both surveillance and documentation of one’s own
“most important” labor in late capital—that is, the
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labor of being an individual. And, in our case, the
labor of being a “poet-citizen.” As we know, the
more successful we are at being laborer-consumers,
the more semiotically successful we are at appearing
as individuals. And vice-versa. This is the Laurel
and Hardy, the Abbott and Costello of slapstick
neoliberalism. We are falling all over ourselves to be
more individual than others. A tweet is a “valuable
good” that promotes “reputability to the gentleman
of leisure,” if I were to put it in Veblen’s quaint,
velvety way.
All poets accumulate capital conspicuously on social
networks. Poets work when we are composing
poetry; poets work when we are composing socialnetwork content: the latter form of labor articulates
itself as heart-felt expression, when it is really a form
of conspicuous leisure, a way of consuming one’s
preferred signifiers in a public sphere—like those
jerks with their quadruple-scoop cones standing at
some traffic intersection calling for the liberation
of Tibet with a mouth full of American dairy. Work
sells books. Within this logic, what is happening
with the Mongrel Coalition (which social media has
paradoxically produced as both an anonymous
band and as highly moral individual agents) and the
denouncement of conceptual poetry is a veritable
potlatch—an expenditure of reserved cultural capital
towards a targeted reordering of social power and
cultural capital. That is: a misplaced fireworks display
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aimed at illuminating (and exposing) the monarchs
of a genre-kingdom that doesn’t exist. It is still the
4th of July for the symbolic order (sorry/not sorry to
Lacansplain). The great joke of course is that at least
one of these so-called stripped monarchs, Vanessa
Place, has been happy to be a nudist the whole time.
You can’t strip that.
Social-media performances (i.e., all activity on social
media) are the invariable end result of what Paul
Virilio describes as the invention of the public gaze
in early modernity. The invention of such a thing
produces a state in which each person becomes
“for everyone else, in the manner of the sans culotte,
a benevolent inquisitor…a deadly Gorgon.” Likes,
retweets, comments and hashbrags are devotionals
at the feet of the benevolent inquisitor. The Gorgon
is deadly because it stabilizes and fixes: it turns
consciousness into stone (an image). The Gorgon’s
gaze is sculptor par excellence. We get to be remade in our own image (stiffs that we are) and in
the service of the benevolent inquisitor’s agenda.
I am skeptical of the moral exculpations of the
hashtag (which many white and non-white poets
are wearing in place of their WWJD pendants these
days). And needless to say, I’m supremely skeptical
of the so-called radicalism of denouncements and
abdications—because these often pretend that the
rhetorical labor of social networks doesn’t accrue
cultural capital in publishing economies, and worse,
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these pretend at pretending by trying to keep it
100% real homegrown in the least homegrown of
all publics.
CB: “Homegrown” and Natural Subjects: I wonder if
it might be helpful to parse the language separating
this term and this book of yours. I can’t help but hear
you begging this question, given that immigration
documents populate your collection, not to
mention the slaughtering manuals that conjure the
contemporary idea of homegrown/grass-fed/
so-called-ethical meat—as if we could somehow
dissociate the gravity of slaughter from meat, the
speaking subject (on Facebook) from the actual
social body he/she occupies.
Given that you pay taxes in two countries, I can’t
imagine that your understanding of the homegrown
remains even relatively stable. Natural Subjects thus
reminds me of the tension between naturalization
and the so-called natural-born citizen, as well as
the objectification to which even “natural” bodies
remain subject. It may be from Whole Foods, but its
still beef. It was still part of a cow that has since been
slaughtered, just as Hedda Gabler has to die at the
end of her own drama in order to upend her feminine
mystique, and Eliza Doolittle must obliterate her
cultural sense for her drama to even occur.
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If Natural Subjects paints a skeptical portrait of the
homegrown through these examples (reminding us
that the seemingly authentic always comes at the
cost of another mode of being), what sort of critique
might it level against the social-media behaviors
we’re discussing? Is there an inherent tension
between the digital landscapes of the contemporary
poetry-sphere and the actual communities in
which we live and labor? Moreover, since so many
critiques hinge on the presumed purity/homegrown
credentials of those wielding the call-out (critiques
that makes their home in the digital but ground their
credentials in the lived political), what happens when
we subject these critiques to their own logic?
DV: The “authentic” or “homegrown” doesn’t quite
exist—and this is a terrible blow for many. The
conservative turn among my kith, for instance, in
non-resident Indians and young first-generation
American-Indians, is a symptom of seeking out
an origin narrative (located in one passport) when
they don’t receive one in their current contexts
(located in another passport). Instead of political
activism, cultural chauvinism (Indians invented the
zero; Indians are inherently more successful, ad
nauseam) becomes the most immediately satisfying
way of fighting white supremacy. The quest for
cultural authenticity is the other side of resisting
assimilation—but they both produce each other and
serve conservative agendas, ultimately. The quest
54
towards cultural authenticity often turns backwards
and in, rather than outward and towards the future.
The women in Natural Subjects are imagined as
“rescues” in their own cultures—taken from one
(“lesser”) context and naturalized into another
(“greater”) context: India to Amrika, flower shop
to Ascot races, unsafe homes to safe asylums/
institutions. There is a false assumption that, if
assimilated properly, they can live better lives—
much like Charcot’s promise to the hysterics. Note
that “to assimilate” is something done unto you.
One cannot undertake this; one undergoes this.
These women (which includes my kinswomen, Eliza
Doolittle, the mental-health patients of colonial
India) have been cared into living naturalized lives
in new contexts. Often these acts of care are carried
out in the form of a game or a bet—as with the “bet”
placed on Professor Higgins’s ability to transform the
way Doolittle’s body and voice signify, as with the
waiting game for the Green Card where you work for
sub-market survival wages offered as a “gift.”
Cultural assimilation transforms everything: the way
you walk; the way you cross your legs; the way you
reach for a knife; the way your soft-palate and teeth
conspire in a timely manner to seek out an “R” that
makes you sound more American than Indian, and
so on. For instance, I’ve watched myself and my kith
learn the compulsory performance of the “A-OK,
55
all is good, can’t complain, just on my ‘pursuit of
happiness’ jog” routine; how to signal a “yes” or a
“no” by nodding in the United States; how to give a
thumbs up instead of pinching thumb and forefinger;
how to say “hunky-dory.” Like the latter phrase, it is
an act of emotional minstrelsy. If cultural assimilation
is about learning how to embody a specifically
American brand of affects, naturalization is a series of
minor events where the performance disappears and
“the individual” emerges: the seams vanish, the swan
appears from the ugly duckling, and so on. When
I was writing Natural Subjects this is all I thought
about—the small ways in which giving something
CB: My own affection for terrible truths is perhaps
my greatest difficulty as a poet, at least socially. If
this was the case when I lived in Philadelphia, it’s
now more than ever that I live in the Bay Area.
This conversation is now sounding like my last job
interview (didn’t get) because this weakness is
also one of my greatest strengths. I have to admit
that I notice a fluency in terrible truths among an
increasingly small numbers of my peers lately, and
find it a self-selective trait—terrible-truth tellers travel
together. Perhaps they always have. I recognized
this trait almost immediately in you, and must admit
that it is probably the largest reason as to why we’re
having this conversation right now.
up is to take something else up. The freak show, as
it turned out, is just an identitarian juggling act, so
sad. Naturalization is a loss not just because you
give up a so-called original identity, but because you
realize that that identity was never yours to begin
with, never natural, never original. I envy, as a result,
people who are convinced that they are people.
Many of us are walking around knowing too well that
we are people made of paper. It becomes harder to
subscribe to any form of cultural essentialism after
this. As you say: no matter how you slice it, a T-bone
or a skirt steak is still just a death turned into a meal.
This is the essence of necropolitics with a side of
parsley. The poetry is just the framing garnish to
this terrible truth.
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If the terrible truth of naturalization is that it’s both a
gain and a loss (one whose ebb and flow constitutes
Natural Subjects), I wonder what conclusions about
the larger state of poetry we might, finally, draw. At
this point we’ve talked about Divya Victor the writer
and Divya Victor the television watcher, but I think
this question also calls for Divya Victor the editor.
You’ve spent the better part of 2015 putting together
a collection of writings on Conceptual Writing (plural
and global). Would you say that the transnational,
naturalized subjectivity of Natural Subject in any way
informs the decisions made by your editorial self?
At present, I’ve seen only the lineup for this feature,
but it suggests a picture of conceptual writing that I
57
think many, with varying relations to the genre, might
find a terrible truth. I think of the very familiar (and
not inaccurate) charge that conceptual writers in
positions of privilege and power repackage, reframe
or otherwise “remix” the work of global practitioners
to further their own capital, and it seems like your
feature wants to occlude this practice by providing
readers with direct access to a number of these
practitioners themselves.
On the other hand, this edited issue also holds the
potential to dispel a myth and tell a terrible truth
about conceptual writing itself. It promises (and,
from what I’ve seen, delivers on that promise) to
complicate the very simple picture of the genre
as uniformly white/male/American and otherwise
privileged. Of course this fact is complicated, if
not undone, by the fact that the issue will run on
Jacket2, and could only be such “a thing” with that
magazine’s deep institutional context and support.
In other words: how does the naturalized ontology
from Natural Subjects inform your editorial practice—
both in this issue and beyond?
DV: Naturalization is first and foremost a strategy
of managing a native labor market through foreign
labor sources. To me, what I hear in complaints
against conceptual writing and conceptual writers
boils down to concerns about how the labor of
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poetry is performed (methods, strategies), and
to what end (the creation of what moral/political
product, the change in what material condition,
etc.). Two of the more damaging notions in the
communities I roam and eavesdrop into: 1) that a
certain cultural positioning (privileged, white, upperclass, institutionally powerful, hetero) is “natural” to
conceptual-leaning strategies; 2) that any subject
who does not occupy that cultural position only
utilizes conceptual-leaning strategies because of
aspiring to become/grow/appear into that cultural
position. These notions are both accusatory and
fallacious in terms of the diversity of the genre, its
regional variants, the political (and denominative)
diversity of its practitioners, and its anomalous and
jagged developments from and through the world.
It is obviously stupid to assert that cut-and-paste
is a racist act. It is even more stupid to naturalize
the analogy between word and world—to assert
a relation of equivalence rather than homology
between textual and material violence. But such
assertions and naturalizations serve to diversify a
saturated community, and to cause arbitrary divisions
based on denominative identities rather than
textual analysis. I really don’t think directly equating
whiteness with conceptualism mobilizes a radical
position, but it does allow for a simple splitting of
the market. As with market diversification, poetry
communities (which are markets) re-brand, introduce
new products, form profitable alliances with
59
complementary agents, and license new aesthetic
modes/technologies for production. The consumer
eats up the fantasy of “community,” while doing all
the work for market diversification—and most of us
occupy both these roles within artist communities.
I’m no exception. What I find embarrassing is the
illusion that there is an outside to this.
In the last year, I’ve noticed one too many a poet
who has never written about civil struggle or who
has wanked off to the in-grown aesthetics of his/her
soft-lit living-room rage against conceptual-leaning
projects that dare to take on racialization in full force.
I’ve observed how people rhetorically repurpose
working-class black American subjects in order to
chastise those who use textual material belonging
to a racist American lineage. And I’ve also observed
how public performances of outrage and mourning
synthetically rebrand and mask one’s social identity—
one’s class, one’s institutional position. As I’ve said
elsewhere, our tear ducts are banks that weep out
gold.
It’s been hard to watch the performance of
(sometimes) white-liberal benevolence in poetry
communities that have carried out a “valiant”
vendetta against the naturalized racism and elitism
of conceptual-leaning writing, despite there
being multiple critical documents (and embodied
examples) that demonstrate the personal and textual
60
intersections between conceptual-leaning strategies
and broader politics of struggle—whether these
be articulated in writers’ denominative identities
(race, class, gender, sexuality) or material priorities
(publishing, production, labor, exchange, markets)
or lexical concerns.
My editing of Conceptual Writing (plural and global)
and Other Cultural Productions for Jacket2 was a
response to this. I wanted critique, not Twitter; I
wanted analysis, not gossip; I wanted descriptions
of process and composition, not lectures and
tirades riddled with personal animosity. But mostly,
I wanted writers and artists around the world to
talk about why they make books and projects in
a certain way—to explain and describe why they
do what they do, without having to take on a
defensive position in relation to an environment of
knee-jerk petitioning and arbitrary (aesthetic and
social) fragmentation. There is some remarkable,
incisive historical repositioning in the feature (Ta’i
Smith’s intrepid revision of the readymade, Michael
Nardone’s commentary on “settler conceptualism”).
But there is also a sense of expanded social concerns
(Elizabeth Jane Burnett on environmental activism,
Daniel Falb Karl-Kunger-Straße on terrapoetics and
the anthropocene, Mathew Landis on corporeality
and ablism/disability). The feature has also turned
out to be an unexpected treasure trove of artist/
poetics statements from writers and thinkers from
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Canada, the United States, the U.K., the Philippines,
Mexico and elsewhere, from people we need to be
paying more critical attention to: Kristen Gallagher,
Alejandro Miguel Crawford, Shiv Kotecha, Marco
Antonio Huerta, Steve Giasson, Holly Pester, Angelo
Suarez, Angela Genusa, among many others. These
folks have been important to my own thinking about
why I write, and while our methods and ends diverge
radically, there is a shared interest in querying the
subject, challenging the conditions of production,
confounding utility and resisting the clumsy derivation
of moral ends through aesthetics.
– Summer 2015
AFTERWORD:
ON RECONFILIATING
— Joseph Mosconi
Throughout the spring and summer of 2015, as
observations about the whiteness of avant-garde
poetry and allegations of racism in certain strains of
so-called conceptual writing took center stage in the
poetry community, the Twitter feed @fuckeveryword
made its way routinely through the letter C of the
English alphabet.1 Fuck catnapping. Fuck capitalism.
Fuck casseroles. Fuck children. Fuck circuses. Fuck
clams. Finally, on June 17, the bot settled upon a
phrase that seemed to be on the minds of many
poets that summer: Fuck conceptualism.
The tweet was favorited and retweeted a handful
of times, and received a single facetious comment
that it had “gone too far,” but the event otherwise
@fuckeveryword is a parody account of Allison Parrish’s
Twitter project @everyword. Over a period of seven years,
@everyword tweeted every word in the English language
in alphabetical order, every 30 minutes. @fuckeveryword
attempts a similar feat but adds the word “fuck” before
every word.
1
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passed without commentary. The next day the bot
continued its long march through the alphabet. Fuck
concession. Fuck concord.
I retweeted the phrase myself, perhaps a bit selfconsciously, and smiled at its appearance in a quasiconceptual Twitter project at the very moment
when conceptualism in poetry seemed truly fucked.
Conceptual writing was accused of contributing to
white supremacy, mimicking the hierarchies of financial
capitalism and promoting a debased colonial aesthetic.
Some writers, who may have had an uncertain
affiliation with conceptual writing, via friendships,
shared publishers, methods of composition or editorial
practice, suddenly discovered that they were emissaries
of a despised and hateful genre and literary movement.
Other young writers, perhaps more cathected to
the idea of conceptualism as a movement or school
of poetry, were at pains to distance themselves
from the missteps and provocations of its most
famous practitioners. Some did so while admitting
complicity with structural racism. Some made public
denunciations of fellow writers and former friends.
Some were defensive. Some made jokes or memes.
Some wrote essays. Some said nothing.
Whatever you think or feel about the work of Kenneth
Goldsmith and Vanessa Place, the contention that
conceptual writing as it is currently practiced is
inherently racist, affectless, apolitical or unethical
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is problematic at best. Such readings are reductive,
avoid actual textual analysis, and ignore the many
conceptual-affiliated writers (some of whom manage
to avoid the conceptual genre-tag) who actively
engage the political, affective and embodied realities
of language—and who even develop strategies of
social activism and anti-imperialism.2 Institutional
racism and sexism persist in both the experimental
and mainstream poetry communities—and certainly
conceptual writing, like all writing, has the potential
to be unethical and racist. But this is not a question
of genre. As the poet Stephen McLaughlin points
out, discussions of literary taxonomy cannot be taken
seriously: “Each piece stands on its own. The most
woodsy/introspective water! light! rain! poem can be
pretty good sometimes. A harsh text concept bomb
is often harsh in a bad way.” Conversely, the woodsy
introspective water poem might be a sexist piece of
trash. The harsh text concept bomb might contain an
incisive critique of cisnormativity. Zooming out from
poetry, a racist horror novel (of which there are many,
many examples) cannot corrupt the entire genre.3
See Jacquelyn Ardam’s review of The Voyage of the
Sable Venus and Other Poems by Robin Coste Lewis.
For a more thorough discussion on this topic, and the
proposition of art as a product of labor, see “Materializing
free time: Notes toward a new constructivism” by Angelo
V. Suarez, in transit: an online journal.
2
To be clear, I am not denying that genre and form are
ideologically circumscribed, but rather that they are
3
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As the interviews in this chapbook attest, many writers
affiliated with conceptualism create work that might
best be described as open-platform poetics. The
gesture of performative interactivity in Divya Victor’s
Race Card, the database in Danny Snelson’s Epic
Lyric Poem, and the file type distribution utilized by J.
Gordon Faylor of Gauss PDF are merely three nodes
in a field of undisciplinary practices that constitute an
unprecedented expansion of poetic language. This
might be “language in the service of art, language
in the service of music, language in all instances
not in the service of communication and speech,”
as Snelson notes. Or it might be language in the
service of bright and ugly feelings, or language in
the service of nothing at all. The affects of anger,
displeasure, discomfort and indecision, or of vulgarity,
stupidity, nihilism and blissed-out ambience, may
be inassimilable to mainstream and experimental
poetry alike. But they do not constitute, to borrow a
phrase from Seth Price, a post-problem poetics—a
poetics that rejects debates over meaning, criticality,
historicism, politics and taste.4 Divya Victor says it
best: look the poet in the eye. Forget the genre.
Engage the work. This is a poetry of witness and
engagement.
There is an Icelandic lullaby, reportedly catalogued
by W.H. Auden, that begins:
Sleep, you black-eyed pig
Fall into a deep pit of ghosts
I like to think of Big C Conceptual Poetry as the
black-eyed pig baby we must lull to sleep, not to
protect or mythologize, but to move beyond, to
disperse among a family of ghosts. Such ghosts
may bear a family resemblance to the formerly living,
but they are more diverse in their methods, more
varied in their affects, and more willing to scare a
sense of urgency into you. This is the undertaking
of reconfiliation.
- October 2015
always historically contingent—one of the points of a
work of art, if the artist is so inclined, could be to upset
genre conventions, or to determine and redefine genre
limits.
For more on “post-problem art,” see Seth Price’s Fuck
Seth Price: A Novel.
4
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AUTHOR BIOS
Caleb Beckwith is a writer and editor living in
Oakland. He is a senior editor at The Conversant,
and, in 2014, co-edited the Conceptual Writing
feature in Evening Will Come. Recent work can be
found at Gauss PDF and Jacket2.
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J. Gordon Faylor is the author of Disgruntled
1234567890 (Basic Editions, 2015), Marginal Twin
Contribution (TROLL THREAD, 2012), and Docking,
Rust Archon, among other publications. He is the
managing editor of Open Space and edits Gauss
PDF.
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Joseph Mosconi is a writer and taxonomist based
in Los Angeles. He co-directs the Poetic Research
Bureau and co-edits the art & lit mag Area Sneaks.
He is the author of Fright Catalog, Demon Miso/
Fashion in Child and Galvanized Iron on the Citizens’
Band. His chapbooks include 33° Houdini (PRB
Publications, 2008), But On Geometric (Insert Blanc
Press, 2010), WORD SEARCH (OMG! Press, 2010)
and QUESTIONNAIRE (forthcoming).
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Danny Snelson is a writer, editor and archivist
currently residing in Chicago. He is the publisher
of Edit Publications and founding editor of
the Reissues project at Jacket2. Recent books
include EXE TXT, Radios, Epic Lyric Poem
and, with James Hoff, Inventory Arousal.
With Mashinka Firunts and Avi Alpert, he works
as one-third of the academic performance group
Research Service. He currently works as the Mellon
Postdoctoral Fellow in Digital Humanities in the
English Department and the Alice Kaplan Institute
of the Humanities at Northwestern University.
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Divya Victor is the author of Natural Subjects
(winner of the Bob Kaufman Award), UNSUB, Things
To Do With Your Mouth, Swift Taxidermies 19191922, Goodbye John! On John Baldessari,
PUNCH and the Partial trilogy. Her chapbooks
include Hellocasts by Charles Reznikoff by
Divya Victor by Vanessa Place (Ood Press, 2011)
and SUTURES (Little Red Leaves, 2009). She has
been a Mark Diamond Research Fellow at the U.S
Holocaust Memorial Museum, a Riverrun Fellow at
the Mandeville Poetry Collections at the University
of California, San Diego and a Writer in Residence
at Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions (LACE).
She lives in the United States and Singapore, where
she is assistant professor of poetry and writing at
Nanyang Technological University. 72
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